#leomoro'a

[morocosmos]

#loveintheair Day 7 - Memorial (Free Day)

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Relationships: Leofard Myste/Warrior of Light, Past Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Emmanellain de Fortemps (for like one sentence) Warnings: Major character death (mentioned) Prompt List and Event by millymischief Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

“Well, old boy! Fancy seeing you one last time before your next great adventure! Might I….” Emmanellain’s voice faded as the great wooden doors shut, leaving Leofard no longer privy to whatever the younger Fortemps son had to say to Moro’a.

A little quiet suited him just fine every now and then. He stuck to the shadow cast by the building, out of sight of any folks; by all accounts he wasn’t here, waiting for Moro’a to say his farewells to those he knew in Camp Dragonhead and Skyfire Locks.

I don’t mind if you are seen with me, Moro’a had said the night before. It’s bound to happen at some point, especially if we’re anywhere near Emmanellain’s nose.

And all the better if he only sniffs us out after we’ve left for Tural, not before, he’d insisted back. Fury, Moro’a needed a better grasp on just how quickly the tabloids could turn a rumour, spreading its roots till it’d embedded itself in every corner of the realm. Perhaps then he’d avoid having his name on their papers every other moon.

Leofard did still like keeping his private life private as well. They could come back to the conversation on the way back to Eorzea.

He waited until the doors swung open again, and he heard quiet footsteps in the snow, walking in his direction. A shadow appeared in the snow in front of him: the hand signal they’d planned before coming to Coerthas. Ready when you are.

He grinned as he joined Moro’a, stepping out into the open. Together they walked through the encampment, under the raised platform where the aetheryte stood and out of the north-eastern entrance. He supposed he should’ve given Moro’a’s planning abilities more credit — the glamour prism he was wearing made him appear as though he were Moro’a’s chocobo, Sal, and nary a suspicion was raised as they left the garrison behind and began the steep climb up the hill that passed the Steel Vigil.

Once they were out of sight and earshot from Camp Dragonhead, Moro’a turned towards Leofard, who dispelled the glamour. There was a question on his face. “I know I’ve asked you once, but…are you certain you wish to follow me to the cliff?”

“I told you before and I’ll tell you the same thing: I’m all for this.” Leofard shrugged, grinning. “‘Sides, I can hardly judge when you see Lady Raimille’s visage presidin’ over me quarters every time you come over...”

Moro’a laughed, a quiet sound that peppered the air with small, white puffs, and made Leofard’s heart leap in a way he still wasn’t used to. “Then I won’t ask again,” he said. 

Satisfied, Leofard fastened one of the buttons on his cloak, trying his best to keep up. He’d never travelled to Ishgard’s surrounding highlands much as a boy, and he had even fewer reasons to do so as a man, so the landscape was unrecognisable to him now. The path became steeper and they passed the remains of the Steel Vigil; high altitudes he could handle without a sweat, but the extreme cold sapped at his energy, though he did his best to hide his struggle.

In contrast, Moro’a moved through the fresh snow like he was born for it, taking steady strides as he cleared an easier path for Leofard with his snowshoes. The knights didn’t travel up this path every day, he’d explained earlier, but he seemed to know where most of the shallower patches fell. The aevises, having since learnt not to violate man and dragon’s new era of peace, left them alone.

As they approached the crest of the hill, Leofard saw it: a humble stone flanked by a shield, erected behind the larger cairns dotting the hill. Moro’a’s steps slowed. As the Keeper passed by the cairn at the centre, he briefly placed his hand on the largest stone, which was miraculously untouched by snow. Leofard made out a faint mark that resembled the symbol of Menphina.

Huh. The mark of the Lover — what a coincidence.

He watched from a few yalms away as Moro’a knelt before the small cenotaph, taking out a small bouquet of flowers from a wooden case and laying them before the stone. He was silent, but Leofard could tell that he was talking, his head turning slightly here and there as he regaled the memorial with whatever it was he wished to say to his former lover and friend.

Haurchefant Greystone…Leofard had scarcely interacted with the other nobles, let alone their children while he was raised under House Roulchardon, but even he had learnt of Count Edmont de Fortemps’s second son — a bastard child who’d been permitted to live under his lord father’s roof. It made him appreciate Lady Raimille’s delicate penchant for secrecy, at least until he’d grown old enough to resent the archaic rules that bound him and the rest of the “highborn” in chains. But to hear anyone tell his tales now, the man was a godsdamned hero, his name now preserved for his part in bringing an end to the Dragonsong War by saving the Saviour of Ishgard.

Yet even a hero was not exempt from the rumour mills. Tall tales of Moro’a’s relationship with Haurchefant had hit the papers well before the latter’s untimely demise. Leofard only skimmed through the drivel to keep his finger on what was happening in Ishgard, but he clearly remembered the day they’d announced Lord Haurchefant’s passing — along with insinuations, some barbed, about whom the Champion of Eorzea kept his bed warm with for moons after.

Moving a little closer, Leofard identified the flowers Moro’a had chosen for such a man. Tiny and powder blue…forget-me-nots. Hells, if it didn’t make him just a teensy bit insecure; just how was he supposed to measure up to someone who’d sacrificed his own life for his lover? Moro’a seldom spoke of Haurchefant as it was, and though Leofard had never asked for a benchmark, it didn’t help that he hadn’t a clue what it really took to be the former Warrior of Light’s partner in crime…

He was being a dolt — Moro’a had never asked that of him to begin with. Shifting from one foot to the other, he kept a calm expression as Moro’a rose from Haurchefant’s memorial. His eyes were wet, but to Leofard’s relief he was smiling.

“What did you tell him?” he asked lightheartedly, not really expecting an answer as Moro’a stepped away from the stone. He could count on Moro’a to be full of surprises, though, for he answered. “I told him about what’s happened since the Final Days ended — going to the Thirteenth, meeting Zero and Golbez, Vrtra and Azdaja. About travelling to Tural, because I can’t seem to stop myself from seeing new places and helping people along the way.” He seemed embarrassed, even a little flustered, as he added, “I told him about you.”

“Me? Well I’ll be,” Leofard preened; he was a little too pleased over the fact. “I won’t pry, but I do demand that the favour be returned in kind.” Moro’a tilted his head, and so Leofard tried again. “How am I to live up to and beyond his gilded reputation when I don’t yet know what kind of a man he was to you, eh?”

“You…” In one stride, Moro’a stood in front of him and reached for his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss him. Leofard was happy to return it — so what if he was a little bit in love? When they finally parted, Moro’a let out an exasperated sigh. “You can start by simply being you,” he asserted. “A man with a heart for adventure.”

Leofard could do that. It would be the simplest thing in the world. “But since you asked…I’ll tell you more about him sometime,” Moro’a added tentatively. He fidgeted with a loop on the sky pirate’s jacket. “Remind me, alright? And thank you. For coming here with me.”

Damn you, Leofard thought, for saying things like that so easily. They would leave for Old Sharlayan soon, and such carefree affection would briefly come to an end. Better make the best of their time before that — wrapping his arm around Moro’a’s shoulder, he drew the Keeper close for another kiss.

[heart-of-lightspeed]

I realise i've never shared my gposes here bc it just never occurred to me asldasdldj i think i'll post my faves over maintenance. here are some last minute boys from today

[morocosmos]

Febuwhump Day 12 - “Can You Hear Me?”

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Relationships: Leofard Myste/Warrior of Light (Pre-Relationship) Content/Trigger Warnings: Brief mention of blood

The voidsent had swooped into Leofard’s line of sight faster than a manacutter. A larger fellow, different from the swarm of imps they were already contending with.

Stacia had been a half-dozen or so yalms to his left, Moro’a behind him – must’ve been him shouting for them to run, but he'd been just a little too late…then, the explosion. Leofard feels it first: a heat-laced impact that sends him flying, followed by a white-hot flash and a noise louder than an Alabathian storm. He hits the ground rolling, grunting as a stray piece of debris grazes past his temple, thinking back to Diabolos’s ambush. Well this is grimly familiar. More pieces fly past Leofard and he instinctively curls up, shielding his head.

When nothing else comes his way he lifts his arms. It's…difficult to get his bearings, but the new voidsent seems to have vanished; Leofard thinks he catches a glimpse of an ink blue tail a ways off.

Battered by the debris as he'd been, his eyes have gone mercifully unscathed, thank the winds for that! His body's bruised and aching in more than one place from the tumble, but it's nothing incapacitating; it's the ringing in his ears that’s the real bother, along with the accompanying vertigo it’s sent his head into. Gods, but he’s finding it hard to tell the ground from the sky when he moves.

Slowly, Leofard gets onto his hands and knees – me revolver, where’s me revolver? – and he’s barely gotten one foot on the ground when danger sends an ominous jolt through him. From the corner of his eye, there’s something bright–

Blast it! He dives forward, barely evading the imp's fireball, but the way his vision spins into a sickening somersault as he lurches is almost just as bad, and now he’s proper nettled. Seven spittin' hells, he can't even figure out what's coming or going on account of this godsdamned ringing! Let him stand up and find his weapon at the very least! Survival kicks in, and he's lunging for what looks like cover. The outdoor table is solid, alright, and he presses back against it, hoping to find his footing once more.

Leofard tries to stand, only to clutch his head with one hand as he falters. It hurts. He's far too dizzy, and he still can’t hear a thing beyond the ringing – just what in the seven hells is wrong with him…?

As a terrible possibility sinks in, he feels a real chill travel down his spine. The explosion might’ve just done his ears in – screwed with his hearing, his balance – oh, swive me sideways…

He looks up in time to see a crowd of imps descend menacingly into view, rapidly closing in on him. No arms, no means of defence or even to run, just his back to the wall like a mouse cornered by the coeurls. Leofard grits his teeth; let them try! He'll take each on every one of them with his bare hands before he’ll back down!

But just then, a ring of magical orbs materialises out of the very air, sending the imps scattering; as the sky pirate blinks, a second, crackling wave of energy follows, taking out several of them and knocking the rest out of the sky. Despite the peril of it all, Leofard can’t help but grin as Moro’a steps into view.

Just look at you…stealin’ the show as always.

The Keeper fends off the imps with more spell-slinging, and as the rest of the Redbills rejoin the fray the voidsent are gone before long, killed or sent fleeing from the Parrock for distant skies.

With a relieved expression, Moro'a turns round to face Leofard, who’s reminded of his sour predicament as he tries to make sense of the shapes Moro’a’s mouth makes. It’s harder than he’d hoped it would be; the other man frowns, and there’s a shorter phrase, followed by another as he starts walking towards Leofard. A question?

‘Can you hear me’? Taking a stab in the dark, Leofard shakes his head.

Moro’a’s expression abruptly shifts from confusion to alarm; he approaches, kneeling down and reaching out to touch the side of Leofard’s head as the hyur flinches in surprise. What is he…? His hand comes away, and the tips of his two fingers are red with blood. Shite. His ears really are done for, eh?

Could he still fly? Could he still run, let alone even walk on his own? Something must show on his face, because Utata's looking at him all worried too, and Moro'a's hand is now firmly clasped on his shoulder. Leofard almost bats him away; gods, don't pity him, it's the last thing he wants on this star, just–

But there’s that clear blue gaze, and the way it’s staring into him. Resolution, not pity. Moro’a pulls his hand back and shifts around, reaching for his magical focus. Leofard easily recognises the contraption: a planisphere, faintly similar to the ones he’d seen in Ishgard when he’d peek through the dusty windows of the Astrologicum…it’s a curious, fanciful thing, glowing faintly as large cards rotate lazily around its centre. It’s only then that it occurs to the hyur that a healer as accomplished as Moro’a might just have the chops to fix his ears.

More mildly fascinated now than apprehensive, Leofard watches as Moro’a plucks out a card, eyes narrowing as he examines its face. Whatever the verdict is, it seems satisfactory, for the card glows and suffuses the healer's hand with sparkling aether before returning to its place. Moro'a shuffles closer, reaching out for him again, and this time Leofard lets him without hesitation.

He feels…water? There shouldn’t be any about, and yet the sensation of it is nothing short of real, flowing through and around his head in cooling streams. It would be alarming to feel through his ears, were it not something so undeniably magical.

Moro'a's eyes are shut, and only his mouth moves, lost in the focus of his spellwork as Leofard watches him. Or more precisely, that he can't stop watching him…wondering how those lips might move against his own…

The world seems to shift, like a veil has lifted before his eyes and just like that, Leofard hears Moro'a exhale as he pulls away. The wind gusts, motors whirr and engines hum, and there’s that voice he’s come to so look forward to hearing, asking him if he’s alright – all prettier than a hundred sunsets.

[morocosmos]

Posting day 12's febuwhump made me bold enough to post this kiss prompt answer from last year, have another wol/leofard lol. @/starfalldiver's request was "where it hurts"

“Leofard. Stop squirming and let me take a look,” Moro’a hisses, keeping his voice down as he listens out for the whirring of goblin machinery. They’re wedged in the small gap of what looks to be a former household, no more than a crevice in the old Sharlayan brickwork that's barely large enough for the both of them.

All had been fine for the first half bell or so, poking around the side of the Hinterlands behind what used to be called the Arkhitekton until they'd caught the attention of a handful of rogue, armed Illuminati members. Stragglers, but dangerous ones nevertheless, and so their casual jaunt had become a chase. 

When he’s certain they won’t be found for at least a few minutes, Moro’a turns his attention back to the sky pirate’s various injuries. None of them remotely life-threatening, but a few are troublesome all the same, like the wound in Leofard’s side that’s bleeding through the dark material of his shirt. Grazed by a bullet, likely. He’d been as reckless as ever, leaping into the thick of combat with no more than his gun and a boatload of pluck…

“Appreciate your concern ‘n all, Moro’a, but I can more than look after me self. Always have.” There isn’t a hint of pain in Leofard’s voice as he shifts upward, as though trying to angle himself for a better look beyond the wall. 

All the while Moro’a tries, tries not to pay too much attention to how the hyur’s thigh is pressing into his shoulder.

“If we have to make a run for it again, this will only slow you down. I'll have it healed in seconds," Moro'a insists. He sees Leofard squint at him through the red tint of his goggles. "Stubborn arse," the hyur grumbles, but there isn’t much fight to his words. A moment later, reason seems to win over his pride. “Agh, make it quick then."

He settles down, lifting his arm out of the way. Moro’a takes a closer look, and his Echo tells him the wound’s still bleeding, but not deep. Drawing in a small amount of celestial aether, Moro'a lifts his hand to Leofard’s side as he mutters the spell. 

They're so cramped together that Moro’a can feel the hyur inhale softly as his fingers brush against his skin. He swallows, retracting his hand as soon as the wound seals.

"Huh." Leofard looks genuinely surprised, grinning as he examines his now smooth, unbroken skin. "Well well, would you look at that…certainly beats patchin’ it up with dirt-ridden rags,” he remarks. “I’ll admit it – I made the mistake of underestimating you." 

“No offence taken,” Moro'a mumbles, avoiding Leofard’s gaze as he heals two more injuries. The sooner they can be out of this cramped space…cautiously, he peers out from the crevice. The goblins seem to have given up their pursuit: all he can hear now is a light breeze sifting through the surrounding trees.

“You missed a spot though, mate.” Perplexed, Moro’a turns around and sees Leofard tapping at a thin cut on his cheek, still wearing that selfsame grin.

Lover, he’s doing this on purpose. “You don’t need me for that,” he responds, caught between wanting to brush it off and giving in to the temptation of playing along.

“Nay,” Leofard concedes, shrugging. “But t’wouldn’t hurt me, either.” He’s looking at Moro’a with a shade more intent now; he can’t escape that carmine gaze, and something about the situation miffs the Keeper as much as it draws him in. Fine then! If he wishes to make a game of it. Giving Leofard no time to react, he leans in and kisses the hyur, right over the cut.

It only takes a second, but as he pulls back, the surprise on the sky pirate’s face is a handsome reward…even if Moro’a’s own cheeks have begun to burn like a fuel-soaked bonfire.

“There. Better now, aye?” Moro’a turns and begins to climb out of the crevice without waiting for a response, but it isn’t hard to imagine the full-toothed smile breaking out from behind him.